Lundi 02.10.06 Red Dress and Red Tape
For once I’m awoken by our coq. It’s 5,30 and outside it’s already light. I don’t want to wake David so I creep around like my creepy-crawly comrades. The frog is still in the bathroom. He’s as small as a stamp and I try not to stamp on him as I arrange myself in the semi-darkness (the mosquito’s are early-risers too so I don’t want to attract them with the light).
Today I’m off to the Rectorat at Morne Tartenson, just outside Fort-de-France, where I will present myself to the relevant education authorities for my circonscription (district) which is Fort-de-France 1. The administration at Tartenson also relates to my assigned teaching level, l’enseignement du 1er degré (primary) while both l’enseignement du 2ième degré (secondary) and the head honcho, Rectorat de L’Académie de la Martinique, are situated at Terreville, just up the road in Schoelcher.
Since my responsable, Jossylene, is away this week one of her colleagues, Guy Chastan, has been appointed to meet me. As far as I can fathom, Guy, Jossylene and another lady, Karine Pommier, are all Conseiller Pédagogique (primary education advisers) within the circonscription of Fort-de-France, and since it is divided into Fort-de-France 1, 2 and 3 they are each in charge of a section. Despite having their allocated sections they seem to work as a group since the collective circonscription of Fort-de-France has 39 écoles, and not unlike this occasion their duties often overlap.
However, before I get to Tartenson I’ve to take the bus from Post Colon Rodate to Fort-de-France. I plan to get the 6,20 bus but just as I’m finishing my juice Madame Arlette sticks her head around the corner and asks if I’m ready. Not wanting to pass up a lift I gather my gear and by 6,45 I’m dropped off at Boulevard Général de Gaulle. Tartenson is just behind Lycée Victor Schoelcher - one of Nicola’s schools, so 15 minutes later I’m weaving my way past the swarming students outside the Lycée. Suddenly the heavens open and despite putting on a rain-jacket, and sheltering in a telephone box, I am trempé jusqu’aux os (soaked to the bone). When I set off again I’m sure the ‘bone-dry’ t-shirt and jean wearing students I met thought I was quite a surly, sodden individual.
As predicted I’m miles too early for my rendez-vous at 8,00 with Guy but at least that allows me to dry off. I’m sitting there organising my documents with my shoes stuffed with tissue when Francesca and Annie appear. Francesca and Annie are in the same school in Lamentin and they’re here to see their educational authorities for the Lamentin circonscription. I’m glad to hear that Francesca and Bex have eventually found accommodation in Schoelcher, and on top of that its accommodation that they’re happy with. Lola and a girl from Guadalupe are sharing the flat nearby so they are not stuck for company. Annie has been an assistant in Martinique for the past two years so she’s an old hat at accommodation and administration. She tells me that she even passed her driving test here.
A lady appears to tell me that Guy is stuck in traffic. He later tells me that he is living some 30 km away near Rivière-Pilote and has been on the road since 6,00. If you’re driving around Fort-de-France between 6,30 and 8,30 you are sure to find yourself bumper-to-bumper in an embouteillage (traffic-jam). It really doesn’t sound dissimilar to the early morning Dublin city traffic but when you consider the heat and the narrow, steep, windy roads, as well as the intense concentration of schools in the city you won’t be long becoming immune to the honking horns and jerky journeys. Since some collèges and lycées start at 7,00 it is not unusual for some students to begin their day at 4,00. On top of that they may not finish until 17,30 and then they still have to make the journey home.
Guy arrives at 8,20 and we go to see the Secrètariat de Fort-de-France 1 so I can register. Of course they can’t find my Proces-Verbal D’Installation so we decide to return later and sort out the paperwork. We’re soon off along the Rocade D41 en route to my school Chateauboeuf A, which I later found out is also known as Ecole Thomas Burnet.
As we walk from the parking lot we pass lots of idle guys and Guy gives me the father-daughter talk about avoiding the lecherous lads in Martinique. He stresses his concern with stories about previous assistantes who spoke to most men they met only to meet trouble further down the line.
At the school entrance we have to press the buzzer and present ourselves before the gate is opened. The classroom blocks are situated around a large, rectangular yard with a single, gigantic tree at one end. There are some kids doing P.E with hoops and bollards. They are wearing yellow and red P.E kits while the children in the classrooms are kitted out in white tops with navy bottoms. I’m introduced to each of my classes by their teacher and I then present myself to them in English and French. Most classes welcome me to Martinique or Madinia as it is also known. In each class some children immediately shoot up their hands with their engaging minds already in a state of enquiry. In one class a child asks me if I use the Chinese alphabet and that prompts lots of questions about the differences between English and French…
In total I will teach eight different classes; the four from CM2, the three CM1 classes and one class from CE2. CM1 and CM2 are at the higher end of the school with children in CM1 aged from 9-10 and children in CM2 aged 11-12. My CE2 class is part of the middle school. They are aged 8-9. There are approximately 20 kids in each class.
Between the eight classes there are a handful of olive and white faces, and some who are a métis (mixed-race), but of course the majority of students are noir, although there are varying degrees of darkness among them. Most of the teachers are also black but some are olive too. Guy explains that in Martinique when you see an olivâtre you can usually divide them into two categories; firstly those whose ancestors were colonialistes and secondly those who come from la Métropole (France). Apparently though most colonial types in Martinique would be usually business people or be self-employed rather than work as civil servants.
Guy then brings me to see the headmistress Madame Genevieve Doh. She seems like an approachable, pleasant lady and she introduces me to all who enter her office. Guy and Madame Genevieve go off on a tangent for a bit and they talk in muted tones about a crazy little boy who threatened a teacher with scissors. I later ask Guy about the incident and he jokingly adds that the kid was going to be a little present for me only that he got packed off the previous week. Never mind the big boys who roam the island, the little lads seem more menacing and inauspicious.
Back at Tartenson I finally get to encounter the awaiting paperwork and introductory procedures. I meet with Madame Dominique Saint-Prix Bertholo the Inspectrice de l’Education Nationale in Fort-de-France. Peculiarly she has reservations about my Irish accent as the previous two assistantes were American. In all seriousness she asked me if I could talk with an American accent when teaching the students!! Quelle folle!
Guy’s colleague Karine meets us later with another assistante, Kesha from Trinidad. She was in Sainte-Luce for our Induction Week. She was originally posted in Sainte-Luce but was moved to Fort-de-France. We exchange numbers and she invites me to dinner some night. I offer to bring dessert but I’ll probably need to bring a baton as she lives in Terreville which is probably the most undesirable part of Fort-de-France. I bid farewell to Guy and us three ladies go to visit Kesha’s school in L’Ermitage which resembles a high-rise block. All the teachers are very friendly and the headmistress seems very chilled in her string top and array of gold bangles. Once they hear I’m from Ireland they all wreck their brains trying to remember our famous beer. I tell them they can have their fill of Guinness from the supermarché and I make sure to remind them to keep March 17th free.
I’m soon dropped off in the town centre. I browse about the shops for a while before I start to over-heat. The combination of this morning’s soakage and my insistence that I break in my new footwear have left my feet in a fix so I decide to head home. Nicola texts me a few minutes later to say she’s also on the way home so I kill time by popping into Crédit Mutuel to enquire about opening a bank account. The place smells like a dentist’s but thankfully the only chilling factor is the air-conditioning. I have to present myself at the Accueil but as it happens the bank is closing so I only have enough time to find out what documents I need. A passport, work contract and proof of address are all that are required so even though I don’t have an official document with my address I state that I’ll be back again tomorrow...(if you saw my fat folder with its many documents you would find it hard to believe that I don’t yet possess something as straightforward as an approved sheet with my address!). However, when I try to exit I find the shutters are down. I’m more confused than panicked and when two dark, handsome bank clerks beckon me to a door under the stairs I initially dismiss their gestures; though not intentionally or even consciously. Finally it clicks that they’re showing me the back entrance. Perhaps I took Guy’s advice about the natives a bit too much to heart; but at least it’s assuring to know that I still have my wits about me.
At the bus-stop Nic and I exchange stories about charming children, touchy teenagers, cute clerks and the guidance we got. Nicola’s responsable Chantal tells her to get a bombe lacrymogéne which is a teargas grenade. It sounds pretty extreme but Chantal told her that it will get rid of all kinds of pests and nuisances. Chantal herself was assaulted a while back and she now carries a petit vallois with her. I can only imagine that this is a tiny pistol with pellets, but perhaps it’s far more severe – hopefully we’ll never have to know.
Nicola illustrates just how backwards some English teachers here are as one class were studying an English poem titled Oxford Dom which used colloquial speech throughout to emphasis that the poet is slagging off an Oxfords man’s posh accent; “ I ain’t got no woman and I ain’t got no money…” No wonder the kids here have such mixed up English.
I see two rats dart across the road in opposite directions and I witness a mosquito taking a donation at my expense. I just need to see a fer de lance snake, but thankfully the only thing snaking by is the bus. We’re soon back at base feasting on our tea while watching Law and Order…in French of course. And later as I lie in my bed with my upturned arms fanned out by my side I can only think that that’s the perfect position for another gift grub for the bloody mossies…
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